


Bigger and Better Things

by nazlan



Series: Maera of Candlekeep [3]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Gen, Homecoming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:33:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1626914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nazlan/pseuds/nazlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The girl he knew is now a hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bigger and Better Things

Rain drummed steadily on the thatched eaves of the cow shed, and Dreppin glanced warily at the woman who had ducked under them beside him, waiting for the storm to pass. It put him in mind of another such rainstorm, years before, and he wondered if it did her as well. Likely. That would explain the awkwardness in the air.

"Um…Maera?" he ventured. "It's, uh…it's good to see you again." She looked at him, and smiled slightly.

"Thanks. Everyone keeps saying that. Like I've been gone for years." She sighed, and looked back at the central Keep, and the rain coursing down the stones. "Though it does kinda feel like it."

"It does and it doesn't," he allowed. In all honesty, he'd hardly recognized her when she arrived at the gate the night before, a party of adventurers at her back. Probably because she looked like one of them. She carried herself like a swordswoman now, not a student. She still looked like Maera, just not the Maera he remembered.

He studied her profile as surreptitiously as he could. There was a thin scar on her right temple now, disappearing into her hairline, and something had changed in the way she held her mouth. In a way, it reminded him of Gorion. Which was ridiculous, because everyone knew he hadn't been her natural father, but…it made a certain sort of sense. "I'm sure you've probably heard this a lot in the past day, too, but I'm really sorry about Gorion, Maera."

She turned her head again, and for a second, she looked exactly like the girl he had known. Then her eyes hardened, and she said, "The people who are responsible for his death are here, Dreppin. And I am going to make sure they pay for it."

He looked down, grateful for the rain, because otherwise the silence would be too unbearable for words. He'd lived all his life at Candlekeep; his family had served the Readers for three generations, and he had always known that someday, his children would too. And Maera had always been there, too, though it was funny in hindsight how he'd always been aware of her but never really noticed her. Not until she was about fifteen anyway. She'd intimidated him at first – she was so clever and sharp that it frequently felt like she was the one with three years' seniority, not the other way around. But then, finally, on a rainy day much like this one, he'd worked up the nerve to kiss her, and she had kissed him back. And through that summer and autumn, they'd explored what followed the kissing, and just when they'd thought they had really figured out this sex business, Gorion had found out.

Maera was turned over to the tender mercies of the Gatewarden, to let her long-standing interest in learning swordplay give her something new to expend her energy on, and Dreppin had found himself banished to the cow yard. And any railing against the cruelty of fate was, in fairly short order, silenced by remembering there were other things they were good at. Dreppin discovered he rather enjoyed animal physicking, and the Gatewarden would tell anyone that Maera was the most natural talent he'd ever trained. It took a year or two, but they came to terms with the divergence in their lives, and eventually, something like passing friendship reasserted itself. But then she was gone.

And while she was gone, a shadow had fallen over Candlekeep. The Readers seemed nervous, the Watchers restive. There was movement in and out of the Library on a scale Dreppin had never seen before. Like a familiar room with all the furniture moved just an inch or two from square, something felt wrong, but no one could agree on exactly what it was. Just the day before, Phlydia had told him to remember her face and make sure it didn't change. Not so long ago, he would have solemnly agreed and chuckled when her back was turned, certain it was just Phlydia being Phlydia. Now it felt ominous, and made his insides cold.

"Maera," he said quietly, "what's going on here?"

"I can't be sure yet." The wind gusted, and she hugged herself against it. "I have pieces of it, and most of them fit together, but…" She shook her head, her eyes unfocused. "I am so close I can taste it."

"What does it taste like?" He had no idea where the question came from, but it asked itself without waiting for his permission.

Maera looked at him, staring dumbfounded for a half second, and then a grin broke across her face. "Like really overdone chicken."

They laughed, and it felt good to see the light back in her eyes, even if only for a minute. She'd always had such a gorgeous smile. As the laughter faded, a realization struck him, one of those clear blue sky revelations that suddenly illuminated everything. He'd never seen their separation as truly permanent. Some part of him had always believed they would have another chance, that maybe they'd been too young before, but time would change that. But as she sobered and her eyes returned the Keep, he knew just as certainly that that was wishful thinking. She didn't belong there anymore.

The drumbeat of the rain slackened, and she sighed. She seemed to be thinking the same thing. "I wish I could stay, Dreppin," she said softly. "Everything's so much simpler here."

"You were always too smart for simple."

She must have heard some bitterness in his voice he didn't intend, because she retorted, "That wasn't an insult, you know."

"I didn't say it was!" he shot back.

She looked as if she were going to argue, her jaw tightening. Then her head dropped, her hair falling forward, almost obscuring the scar on her temple. Without meaning to, Dreppin reached out, brushing her hair back. She tensed, but didn't flinch away. "What happened here?"

She shrugged. "Gnoll."

"Gnoll?"

Another shrug. "I didn't duck in time." She chuckled grimly. "I've picked up some real beauties in the last couple of months. You should see the one on my back." She turned her head, his fingers still touching her temple. "Dreppin…when I've got my answers here, I'll be going back to Baldur's Gate. And when all of this is said and done, I don't know when…or if, I'll be coming back."

"You shouldn't." She blinked at the immediacy of his reply; he was more than a little surprised by it himself. He floundered, casting about for the right elaboration. A part of him, a bigger part than he would have imagined even a few hours before, wavered. Should he really be encouraging her to close that door? After all, what if…

No, he couldn't be selfish. She deserved better. "Maera, you…you look amazing. And it's because you're doing what you've always been good at. Solving problems. Fixing things. Helping people. Only now you have the whole world to do it in."

The rain had tapered to a light mist. She stared at him in silence, her dark eyes cutting straight through him. Like they always had. Like they always would. "Thank you," she whispered. She straightened her back, stepping back, out of the reach of his hand. "I should head back to the inn, round everybody up. Rieltar Anchev owes me some answers."

Dreppin nodded. "Go get 'im." She smiled, sharp and vengeful at first, but then it softened.

"Good-bye, Dreppin." She turned, walking back towards the inn, shoulders square and head high. He watched her go, and heaved a small sigh. There were worse women to carry a torch for, and maybe, in not too long, he wouldn't anymore.

The small storm lamp attached to the main roof support beam flickered, apparently tired of fighting the damp. After a minute or so, it sputtered, and went out. Dreppin glanced at the cow in the nearest stall. "That's what they call symbolism, Ness."


End file.
